Chuck vs the Personal Day
by valeriebean
Summary: Casey's lover Ilsa returns, with a slew of bounty hunters on her trail, bringing imminent violence right to Chuck's doorstep! Danger, action, and heroism!
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

The landing gear crumpled as the small plane crashed along the dusty, rocky path where Ilsa had been forced to land. She swore under her breath, concerned not for her own safety, but for her eleven-year-old brother in the back seat. He masked the heart-pounding terror with a brave face, and kept absolutely silent, praying to live.

A fallen log! The plane flipped tail over nose and landed upside down, jarring her against the restraint, stealing the breath from her lungs. This time, Quincy screamed in pain. How close were the people that shot her down? She had to move fast.

Carefully, she freed herself from the restraint and fell hard on her shoulder. Her jaw clacked and she tasted blood on her tongue. Once the plane caught fire, they would be easy targets. No time to dawdle!

"Hold on, Quincy," she said, shimmying around the crumpled cockpit, trying to get to him. The boy was still hanging upside down in his harness, eyes scrunched shut, hands quivering in mid air like he was shaking a piggy bank. She helped free him, trying to make sure he didn't fall on the warped metal jutting into the cabin, wrapped an arm under his shoulder, and crawled out from under the up-turned plane.

"Avance," she ordered in French – their first language. _Walk_. Yanking him by the elbow, she forced him to run on his own power away from the wreckage. There were rocks and shrub-like trees, but nothing good for hiding in. Down the hill a little ways there was a small development and she planned to steal a car.

Quincy cradled his right arm against his chest, stumbling every few steps, but keeping pace enough that when he fell, he fell against her. Their father had been murdered two days ago, and they'd done nothing but run ever since. There was no time to regroup, no time to figure out who was after her, and no way to call for help. And no time to sleep.

"Stay conscious," she urged to her brother, putting an arm around him to hold him up more than anything else. She was proud of him for handling the trauma so well, and racked with guilt for putting in the situation in the first place. Whatever was going on, it was connected to her spy life. Quincy was the ruse to pull her out of hiding – Quincy and their father. Now their father was dead, and given the way Quincy fought off sleep and refused to eat, she was pretty sure his captors had forced him to watch.

They ran away from the plane, panting from exertion, choking on blood and dust, bodies screaming in protest. After half a mile, they reached the first house on the hillside. No car. The second house had a locked garage. If her gun had any bullets left, she would've shot the lock. As it was, she only had a few blades tucked in at her thigh, calf, and the small of her back.

She'd landed in California, but had she made it anywhere near L.A.? She needed to break into a car with a GPS. With any luck, her old lover would still be in town on that mission that she'd never quite figured out. Thank God she'd spent the night with John Casey.

"Quincy?" Hearing a thud behind her, she turned sharply, and swore. He was unconscious.

*~*


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Chuck had the Pac-Man theme stuck in his head. It didn't make sense, since he was playing Grand Theft Auto, but sometimes, it just got stuck. He blew air out of pursed lips, willing the game to be more mind-consuming than it was. He could hear the steady series of grunts leaking in from the hall as Devon did inverted crunches while hanging upside down. Ellie had the TV blasting, but she wasn't watching it. She was stewing over the fact that Devon put exercise ahead of dish washing. Chuck would've washed the dishes, but he got that look from her, and he knew if he lifted a finger, she'd be nagging Devon for … well, she was pretty quick to forgive the little things.

Pausing the game, Chuck checked the time, wondering if Morgan would make his 8:00 appearance. He and Anna had been on an upswing of late and Chuck saw him less and less. It made it easier to disappear for Intersect stuff, but Chuck missed his friend. Even when he had to brush Morgan off to save the world, it was nice to know someone wanted to be around him just because.

Hearing the scuff of shoes outside the window, he smiled to himself and stood to greet his friend. He kicked a clear path on the floor through his sundries and pulled open the blinds.

"Hey, Mor –"

Chuck froze immediately when he saw the gun. Six months ago, he would never have seen the face behind that giant metal barrel pointed right between his eyes, but now he was accustomed to getting over it and looking. That was a bad thing, in his mind.

He recognized Ilsa immediately, and couldn't help but smile on Casey's behalf. She looked haggard, her face covered with dried blood and grime, and hair falling out of her pony-tail. She was dressed in black from head to toe, but her clothes were snagged, ripped, and smeared with dust.

"Ilsa?" he said, raising his hands to show she wasn't armed.

"You," she breathed, relaxing a hairsbreadth, tucking her gun into her boot, and turning around to look at Casey's door. She leaned over a boy who looked just as haggard as her, and was curled up on Casey's door mat. "Do you know where John is?"

"No," Chuck said, climbing out the window, wishing he could be more helpful without inviting spy business into his home. "I can call him."

She stooped down to lift the boy. "Send a text. I-486-27."

With a shrug, Chuck pulled out his phone and sent the message.

"You must deliver this boy to John," she said, heading for Chuck's window, and stepping over the sill. Startled at her brusqueness, Chuck jumped out of the way, and watched with disappointment as trouble went through his window. If it weren't so expensive to run the air, he'd lock the thing.

"Who is he?"

Chuck's phone chirped and he checked the message as he followed Ilsa inside. He'd never received a response from Casey so quickly, and he wondered what the code could mean to light such a fire under an already fire-lit kind of man.

"Casey says to stay put. He's on his way," Chuck said, watching curiously as Ilsa arranged the child on his bed.

"Hopefully he'll be here before he wakes," Ilsa whispered, more to herself. She looked around the room once, and made a face like she was happy as unhappy about all this as Chuck was, then she headed for the window again.

"Ilsa –"

"Do not take him to the hospital. And don't let him out of your sight," she warned, and he firmly believed she'd kill him if he disobeyed. "I'll return soon."

"A few hours soon or a few days soon?" Chuck asked, but she didn't answer. Worriedly, he looked at the kid again. "Months?"

"If I'm not back by tomorrow night, assume I am dead. John will know what to do then."

"But –"

It was too late to protest. Ilsa was out the window and she'd vanished into the shadows.

*~*

Chuck's eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open, and his brain had fizzled and gone kaput. There was a boy lying in his bed, and he had absolutely no way to explain that to his sister or anyone else. Why did they do that? These crazy spy people just jumped into his life and made him fly helicopters and never had to worry about appearing so insane that their sisters had them committed.

The boy had dark hair and olive skin like Ilsa – at least it looked olive underneath the dirt and grime. His hair was matted with blood and he was shaking like he was having a seizure. A small part of Chuck knew that he should get Ellie to come in and fix the kid, but he was still working on the explanation.

The boy choked, and his whole body curled and writhed. He stifled the cough and looked around, immediately freaking out. Chuck would've too. In fact, he could already feel his palms getting sweaty.

"Hey there," Chuck greeted, waving shyly. "Don't be –"

The boy suddenly let loose a high pitched scream, tumbled out of the bed, and scrambled out the door.

"– scared," Chuck finished, chasing the kid out. "Wait!"

The boy dashed into the hall, looking over his shoulder at Chuck as if Chuck were the bad guy, and he smacked right into Devon who was still hanging upside down from the ceiling. Falling over like he'd hit a brick wall, the kid moaned and rolled quickly to his hands and knees. Chuck tried to say something calming, but as he approached, the boy scampered away, crawling under Devon toward the living room. Devon stammered in confusion, begging for an explanation as he orchestrated his release. Chuck ignored Devon and focused on the panicked kid.

"It's okay," Chuck cried, dropping to his knees to follow. "Calm down."

Thankfully, Ellie was not blocking the front of the hall, but she was saying desperate, calming words of her own to the boy. The kid had one hand braced against his chest, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to run as soon as he found an escape path.

"Chuck, where did you find this kid?" Devon asked. Finally released from the ceiling, Devon ran into the living room, which only set the kid shouting again.

"He was in the court yard, waiting for Casey."

Ellie pulled a blanket from the couch and tried approaching the boy with that. The kid ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the block, and then dove under the dining table.

"Call the police, tell them to contact child services," Devon said, looking squarely at Chuck.

"We can't."

"What?"

"I mean …" Chuck stammered, searching for an excuse and coming up empty. He didn't want Ilsa to kill him, and he figured her reasons for not going to a hospital involved other people trying to kill them. The police and child services were probably implied in the order. "We should wait. Casey is coming."

"Chuck, you're not making any sense," Ellie protested. She knelt next to the table, but the kid swiped at her with the knife any time she got close.

Chuck tugged the roots of his hair. "I only mean … he … look, just trust me. We can't call."

Devon grabbed his arm and spun him around so hard that Chuck squeaked in surprise. "Chuck, we're looking at an abused and neglected child. We have to call child services and we have to get him to a hospital."

"I –" Chuck pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Please, let's just wait for Casey. He'll be here soon."

*~*

Casey's skin felt ice cold and he panted for breath, not believing the text he'd gotten. The Costco clerk was only half finished ringing him up when he got the message, but he dashed out of the store like he was being chased by a squad of Iraqi insurgents with slug launchers. Still, it was nearly ten minutes before he made it back to the complex, pulled into his parking space, and sprinted across the courtyard. He knew there was little hope of seeing Ilsa at this point, but couldn't imagine what she might have left for him.

Running to his door, he fumbled the keys, and froze when he heard the scream coming from Chuck's apartment. Swearing under his breath, and not bothering with the front door, Casey took the easy access via Chuck's bedroom window and followed the source of the sound into the hall.

The scream was from a young boy, upper elementary or junior-high age. He was huddled under the dining table, holding a knife and swiping at Ellie. Chuck's sister sat on the floor just out of reach of the blade, whispering soothes to the boy, and Devon and Chuck were arguing about whether to call the police.

"What's going on?" Casey asked.

"Oh my!" Chuck yelped in surprise.

"Finally," Devon said, crossing his arms belligerently.

"John," Ellie said, looking at him like he could finally stop the madness. "Tell Chuck it's okay to call the police."

Casey looked from Chuck to the boy, realizing that this was what Ilsa left for him. Mixing a sigh with a grunt, Casey squatted on the floor next to Ellie and looked at the kid, assessing the damage. "Best not call anyone just yet."

Ellie protested, but Casey ignored her. He reached out and the kid slashed at him with the knife. Catching the boy's wrist easily, he twisted the kid's arm, forced him to drop the knife, and dragged him out from under the table. Ellie cried out in surprise and begged him to be gentle. The boy struggled and shouted, but Casey braced the kid against his body and locked on tighter, standing up to prevent the kid from using the floor as leverage. With what little motion he could manage, the kid used his elbow and jabbed Casey's ribs repeatedly, begging to be released … in French. So Casey responded in French.

Pressing his lips to the boy's ear, he whispered the code. "I-486-27."

The boy froze immediately and stared moon-eyed at Casey, panting heavily.

"N'aie pas peur," Casey said, wishing his French were a little less rusty. _Don't be afraid._ The kid wriggled in his arms, then finally collapsed against his chest, heaving and weeping wearily. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable and unsure, Casey patted the kid on the shoulder awkwardly.

"Ne pleure pas, tu es en sécurité ici," Casey told him. _Please don't cry. You are safe here._

*~*


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Casey could feel Ellie and Devon staring at him, but his primary mission now was figuring out why Ilsa had dumped this boy into his life. There was no way to hide his language skills.

The boy's name was Quincy. When he said it, he sounded small and frightened, like he was using a cover name for the first time. Casey squeezed him encouragingly, and repeated the name, telling him he was safe over and over, until he stopped shaking so much. He introduced himself and the others, and after half an hour was able to convince Quincy to sit at the dining table and let Ellie clean his wounds. She worked gently and efficiently without asking questions. Quincy gagged on the medicine she gave him, but at least he swallowed it. He still hadn't said much besides his name, but at least he'd stopped whining.

When Ellie started splinting his hand, Quincy had calmed enough that didn't need Casey saying soothes constantly in French. Casey felt a pang of guilt as he watched, worried he'd broken his new asset by being too aggressive in disarming him, but then he realized that Ellie was splinting the right hand and he'd grabbed the knife from the boy's left hand. Quincy sat on the chair, slouched, shoulders hunched, eyelids drooping, nearly sobbing with the effort to stay awake. Casey alternated pacing around the table and sitting in the chair next to the kid, trying to think of a way to separate Quincy and Chuck from the others and ask what was going on. At least the language barrier was protecting the kid from inadvertently revealing anything at the moment.

Quincy watched him tiredly, but he also surveyed the room like he was looking for a way out. He'd been held against his will and escaped. Casey could see it in his eyes and he was dying to hear the kid's side, but any time he tried to initiate, the kid closed off. Casey had never been good at interrogating without weapons and threats … and in French besides.

With a heavy sigh (and a stern look from Ellie) Casey reigned in his restlessness and sat down again, next to the boy.

"Je n'arrive pas à rester éveillé," Quincy mumbled, then leaned sideways so that his head rested on Casey's arm. _I can't stay awake._ It was the most trustful move the boy had made all night, though he still didn't close his eyes. He whimpered and panted, fighting his own weariness.

"Poor thing. He's exhausted," Ellie said, and Casey nodded. Quincy swatted her hand weakly when she tried to caress his face, reminding her that he still didn't trust her. She looked hurt, but not surprised. Chuck motioned toward the couch and laid a sheet over the cushions, and Casey took the hint.

"Ferme les yeux," Casey whispered, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders and scooting their chairs closer together. _Close your eyes._ Carefully, Casey tugged the boy's arm around his shoulder, and carried the boy to the sofa. Quincy passed out in his arms, his cheeks wet with tears.

"What did you give him?" Casey asked, carefully setting the boy down on the couch and stepping aside so that Chuck could cover him with a blanket. Casey wasn't made for coddling kids.

"Nothing that would make him fall asleep," Ellie said softly, cleaning the mess of spent towels and gauze rappers from the dining table. If the kid wasn't sedated, there was no telling how long he'd be out, and given the circumstances, his first move would be to look for a way out. Casey needed to get the kid back to his place, but first he had to make sure there were no knives lying around for the kid to snatch.

"You should take him to the hospital," Devon said. He'd been watching Ellie work, but kept his distance so as not to stress the boy. "His hand needs to be X-rayed to see the extent of the fracture, he's dehydrated, and … it's important to document his injuries so that whoever did this to him can be brought to justice."

Casey looked at them warily. "Can you do anything else here to get him through the night?"

Ellie's nostrils flared immediately, recognizing the evasion. "I will call child services if you don't," she threatened.

"I'll get him the help he needs. I just can't go to a major hospital," Casey said slowly, thinking madly to form a cover story for the child. Devon had already built something in him mind about the kid being attacked.

Casey's eyes darted around as if the walls had ears (which ironically they did, though they all led straight to his place). He dropped his voice low and said, "He should never have come through here. It's not safe."

"Whoa," Devon said, blowing air out of pursed lips. Casey figured he'd take the bait. When he'd done background checks, he'd learned that Devon's aunt was once part of an underground railroad, helping victims flee abusive situations. Devon became immediately accommodating at Casey's hint, and he would sway Ellie.

"We'll do what we can tonight," Devon promised.

Ellie looked unhappy and folded her arms across her chest. "Promise me you'll get him help."

*~*

As soon as he was sure Ellie wouldn't call the police, Casey grabbed Chuck by the collar and manhandled him to the back room for a private chat. When the door closed, Chuck let out a stream of protests that none of this was his fault.

"First things first," Casey interrupted, silencing him with a finger over his lips. "Do you know who this boy is?"

Chuck shook his head, his face getting white in that helpless 'I-wish-I-had-answers' way. "I didn't flash on him, if that's what you mean."

It's exactly what Casey had meant, and he wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad answer. As much as he could use the intel, the fact that Chuck hadn't flashed had to bode well on some level. Releasing Chuck's collar, he kept with his interrogation. "Did Ilsa seek you out?"

"I think she was looking for you," Chuck stammered uncertainly. "I looked out the window and there was your old girlfriend. She told me to text you, and before I knew it she was leaving this kid and said don't take him to the hospital."

She'd left quickly! "Did the enemy track her here?"

"I don't know. She didn't say anything."

Casey groaned in frustration. He hated having to translate his questions into Chuck-dummy-talk! "Was she looking over her shoulder like she was being chased?"

"Um –"

That meant no. "Did she mention her current cover? Any way to contact her?"

Chuck's jaw quivered and he looked at the floor before daring to meet Casey's eye. "She said if she wasn't back tomorrow to assume she's dead."

Casey swore under his breath. That gave him less than twenty-four hours to figure out who was chasing Ilsa and stop them from killing her and the boy! He needed backup. Climbing out the window, he dashed for his apartment.

"Stay," he growled when Chuck tried to follow him into the courtyard.

"Casey, wait! I don't speak French!"

*~*

Agent Walker stood judgmentally at the threshold of the kitchen while Casey poured himself some scotch. There was a right and wrong way to go about this, and bringing Walker in at this stage was the best strategy. After he'd briefed her, they'd called General Beckman and reported together. Beckman was there best hope at finding Ilsa's current mission.

It wasn't that Casey needed a partner. It was that as much as he loved Ilsa, he had absolutely no clue how women thought. Walker had that 2.5 kids, house with a picket fence dream, and maybe she'd have a clue as to why this child was dropped on her door step. Nothing had come of it yet, except for a well-framed lie as to why Chuck and the boy should not immediately be extracted to a safe house.

Casey finished his drink and offered Walker a shot, but she refused.

"I should go over there before big sister breaks down and calls child services," he said softly. He'd left Quincy on their couch, dozing, and he worried what might happen if the boy stirred. Casey looked around his living room, trying to figure the best way to child-proof it. He wasn't the type to leave guns lying about, but someone truly committed could find a weapon or two within arm's reach from any position in the room.

"You can't keep him here," Sarah said gently, but firmly.

"Ilsa brought him to me to keep him safe. It's only 24 hours."

"If she lives," she said, stepping in front of him so they were nose to nose. He hated that she was right, and he didn't stop her from finishing her protest. "We don't who was chasing Ilsa or what danger the kid is in. We're here to protect Chuck."

Casey sighed, rubbed his hand tiredly over his face, and tried to think of a plan that would carry him beyond the next ten minutes – get the boy here. "Do you speak French?"

"I –" Walker huffed in frustration. "Don't bring me into this and then brush me off."

"Take a refresher. You may need it."

He always ignored her and didn't know why she was getting so huffy about it tonight, when he needed her the most to sit there, listen, help, and shut the hell up. The plan stagnated – get the boy here.

Going to the courtyard, Casey made a bee-line for Chuck's window. Sarah followed closely.

"Where are you going?"

"To see this boy we're putting our lives on the line for," she said belligerently, placing her hands on her hips. Casey peeked in the window, but no one was in the bed room.

"Should we tell Chuck's roomies that you just happened to be in the neighborhood?" he asked and she made a face. "Come by tomorrow morning and I'll introduce you then."

Her lips parted and her brow furrowed. "Come here? Aren't you bringing him to the castle?"

"Ilsa won't come looking for him at the castle," Casey explained, lifting the shade and climbing through the window. He placed a hand up, preventing Walker from following. "The Intersect is yours tomorrow. Don't get him dead."

"Casey –"

"You have your personal days, I have mine."

*~*


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Devon spooned against Ellie as they both pretended to sleep. She was tense, twitchy, and high-strung and he wasn't much better, although he felt he knew better why they could do nothing more in this case. He told Ellie to wait forty-eight hours before doing anything, and he prayed the delay would do more good than harm.

Ellie sighed again and pressed her head against his shoulder in frustration. They had exactly three and a half hours to sleep before she had to leave in the morning. His shift started later than hers by an hour, and though they normally carpooled, he planned to check on the kid.

"I can't believe he just started speaking French like that," Ellie said, breaking the silence. Their neighbor's sudden break into another language had been surprising, and not well-explained, but it at least explained why this kid had been sent through this particular channel for his escape. Although, having the kid show up without a proper chaperone or being left with Chuck in Casey's absence simply did not add up. Devon had felt a twinge of jealousy when Casey was speaking to the kid so easily, because all he and Ellie had been trying to communicate to the kid was that they were doctors and he was safe.

"There's a reason I put all the hours in at the clinic," Devon said softly, squeezing Ellie across the shoulders. "I want to catch these cases before it gets as bad as this."

"I know. It eats me up too," she murmured. "I feel like my hands are tied. I know what I need to do, and you're asking me not to do it. And I don't know why."

"You just have to trust me, babe." She sensed the memory in him, and knew it wasn't only tonight that wound him up. As much as he wanted to share, he was scared to death, because he'd been sworn to secrecy by his aunt.

"I love you, Devon."

Devon shuddered, as his mind translated her tone. It was a form of 'I forgive you for not telling me your secrets, but please, please, please talk to me.' Pressing his eyes closed, he distilled the details, trying to figure out what might be safe to tell her. It was so long ago, and he needed to say.

"You can't repeat what I'm about to tell you," he whispered, keeping his voice low as if, even now, someone was listening. He felt her tense and all the hair on her body raised on end. Devon shivered too, feeling cold like a ghost had entered the room

"You don't have to say anything," she offered, as if knowing that there was a secret was enough.

"No. I need to. My brother –" Devon choked, swallowed hard, and started again. "He says I get this look in my eye sometimes when I remember. I want you to know that look."

Ellie turned to face him, her lips quivering, her eyes reflecting all the pain he'd bottled up and hidden for so long, that most days he forgot he carried it.

"I was eight. My parents were gone for a week on a cruise and my brothers and I were staying with our aunt."

He couldn't remember what movie it was, but he had been sore about missing the opening scene. They'd wanted popcorn, but their aunt was at the front door talking to someone who had stopped by and he'd lost the wrestling match with his brothers, so he had to get the snack. None of them could figure out how to pause the tape. Being unskilled with the air popper at that age, Devon had made a royal mess of the kitchen and finally gave up and went to the hall to ask for help. He'd only caught a glimpse of the woman before she ducked into the study. Her face was purple, in the same way his brother's had been when he accidentally took a baseball bat to the face during a piñata whacking. This woman looked like she'd been hit more than once.

"My aunt had to pass her on really quickly because her ex was right on her heels," Devon explained. "She packed me and my brothers into the car, because there was nowhere she could leave us on such short notice. We'd just started the movie and didn't want to go."

Devon didn't remember being in danger that night – he remembered being extremely tired. After they dropped the woman off, they drove for hours, then their aunt took them to a late night movie, and then to an all-night diner. Midnight ice cream meant nothing to a weary, frustrated eight-year-old who just wanted to curl up in bed. If he'd known it was so dangerous to go back to the house, he wouldn't have complained so much. It was years before he found out an armed man had come to the house that night looking, and that's how the police had caught this woman's abuser. His aunt had known, somehow, that that would happen. Devon had told his brothers, because they were there that night, and they would understand why he'd spent so many months in the university library tracking down the reports ten years after the fact. Their aunt had sworn them to secrecy, and to this day, he was pretty sure his parents didn't know.

Now Ellie knew. And she calmed considerably, understanding why Devon had been so accommodating to Casey. Ellie settled against him, less twitchy than before, and he held her until she fell asleep. Then he slipped out of bed and opened his lap top, determined to learn a few phrases in French before morning.

*~*

The morning came faster than Sarah would have liked, but five solid hours of sleep was more than she got most nights, and she would've had Casey's hide if he'd waited until morning to spring this on her. On top of it all, the entire incident had occurred at their ground zero – Chuck's home. Sarah had figured Ilsa and Casey would get a room their last night together, but bringing her to his home seemed a major violation of protocol and common sense. It was not like Casey. She'd seen that Casey was prone to minor lapses in judgment that time when Carina came to town, but Ilsa had an even deeper impact on Casey. He loved her and he'd do anything for her – even sacrifice the Intersect if it came to that. Sarah's goal was to make sure it never came to that.

The sun hadn't risen yet when she got to Casey's apartment and knocked on the door. If he'd slept, it didn't show. He hadn't shaved, showered, or even found a shirt, but he stepped back from the door, eyes half-closed, and waved her in with his gun. His head hung and his shoulders slumped, and he sloughed his way to the kitchen, leaned his elbows on the counter, and stared intently at the coffee machine, not awake enough to realize that he hadn't yet turned it on.

Sarah had expected it, and was armed with coffee and scones, though Casey hadn't seemed to notice that either. She followed him to the kitchen, selected the Amaretto flavored coffee from her tray, and waved it under his nose. Amaretto was Casey's favorite flavor of coffee, no matter how much he insisted that he preferred Maple. He didn't smile, but his jaw quivered with want and his eyes opened wide.

"Is it too early to introduce me to this boy?"

Casey shrugged, sipped his coffee, and pointed to a form crumpled in the middle of the living room floor. "He's still out."

Sarah's eyes went wide and she ran to the living room, falling onto her knees next to the boy. At first, she thought he'd dumped the sleeping child on the floor, but the kid didn't stir when she touched his shoulder.

"Is he all right?"

"He kept trying to leave," Casey shrugged. "It's not cute, it's annoying."

"You tranqued him?!" Sarah cried, incredulously. "He's a child, Casey! You could have stopped his heart!"

"He's not dead. I checked that," Casey said defensively. He found the bag of scones and pulled one out.

"And then you left him on the floor."

"I carried him to bed the other three times he got up," Casey said irritably, through a mouthful of food. "If you care so much, you carry him."

Pressing her lips together, Sarah first satisfied herself that the boy's heart was ticking at a reasonable rate and that nothing could be done for him until the tranquilizer wore off. She tried scooping him in her arms, but he was eighty pounds of dead weight, and she didn't have more than a foot and a half of height on him. Casey laughed at her and headed into the bathroom to shower.

Persevering, she pulled Quincy into a fireman's carry, took him to the bedroom, and laid him on top of the covers. He groaned and whimpered, touched his splinted hand, then shivered and fell asleep. Of course, now he would come out of his coma. She didn't want to disrupt his sleep by maneuvering him under the covers and she couldn't find a throw, so she found a sweatshirt in the closet and threw that over the boy instead.

Casey entered a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist and his phone pressed to his ear. He tipped his head to the door, motioning her out, and then closed the door behind her. Sarah was barely a few steps down the hallway before Casey emerged from his room, looking 100% refereshed and ready for the day. Setting up a laptop on the kitchen table, he linked in the phone, and shortly thereafter, they were cleared to talk to Beckman.

Casey briefed the General on the kid's persistent attempts to run away and Sarah bit her tongue about the tranquilizer. She was surprised when Casey brought it up himself and the General, though she raised an eyebrow, did not seem surprised.

"Knowing the kid's real name might help him trust us," Casey said.

"There's a reason you aren't privy to that information, Major," General Beckman replied. "Now that I've had my coffee, I can ask – is there a reason his handler knew what address to find you at?"

Casey tensed and froze, unable to lie to his superior, so Sarah stepped in. "Our cover lives were exposed during our previous encounter, General, but our mission was not."

"General, do you know Ilsa's connection to the boy?" Casey asked, quickly changing the subject.

"We ran a photo of the boy against our data bases. He and his father were reported missing from their home in Colmar two weeks ago," General Beckman answered. A few pictures came up on their screen of the boy, his father, and the crime scene where the two had been abducted. Trinkets were broken and furniture upturned – it was clearly a violent abduction.

"They are relatives of the agent, Ilsa, as you call her," Beckman continued. "Her current cover is Kara Martin. Ms. Martin acquired the boy from his kidnappers somehow and brought him to the States yesterday."

"Why would a French agent run here?" Sarah asked.

"We believe his mother is American, meaning the boy is too by birth, giving him full rights and privileges thereof."

If his mother was American, then he wasn't Ilsa's child. Beckman knew their connection, but was being tight-lipped. Sarah found it frustrating.

"And his father?" Casey asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"No one has seen him since his abduction. There is no reason to believe that he made it out of France with the boy and Ms. Martin."

"Il est mort? Mon papa?" Quincy's voice was tiny and high-pitched, and both Casey and Sarah jumped at the sound. Sarah didn't know what he'd said and Casey didn't translate. Quincy stood at the entrance to the hall, leaning heavily on the wall, completely entranced by the photos on the screen.

"Your Papa," Sarah said softly, kneeling and reaching out. The boy maintained his distance, looking warily at her

"Leave him be, Walker," Casey warned, minimizing the photos, closing the connection to D.C., and heading into the kitchen. Sarah watched irritably as Casey pulled out ingredients for a smoothie and started blending loudly, ignoring both her and Quincy.

She looked from Casey to the boy. "Can you tell us what happened to him?"

Quincy squinted his eyes and she knew he didn't understand, but also knew her French wasn't up to par. When she tried the simple question, 'what happened,' Quincy immediately started shaking. His eyes filled with tears, and then one tear escaped, running down his cheek, and splashing on the floor. Sarah scooted closer, holding her hand out, and Quincy swallowed the rest of his tears, then ran back into Casey's bedroom and shut the door.

"Nice going," Casey remarked, emerging from the kitchen the finished smoothie, and following Quincy into the back room.

*~*

Chuck spent most of the evening cleaning muddy foot-prints off the carpet, and with only three hours before work the next morning, he opted to poke around the CIA website and see if they were hiring. Now that he had an official degree, he could do things like that, though he wasn't sure if being a top secret asset was the same as having top secret clearance. So long as he was the Intersect, his life was a mess, but he had to dream.

"Chuck!" Ellie rapped loudly on his door, already dressed and smelling of fresh apricot. Jerking awake, Chuck blinked away the confusion, wondering when he'd dozed off. He rubbed his eyes, then over his mouth, and stretched in his chair.

"Morning," Chuck greeted, and she smiled softly. "Are you and Devon headed out?"

"I am," she answered. "Sarah's here."

Sarah! Chuck jumped to his feet, smoothing his shirt, not daring to smell his breath. Grabbing his work clothes, Chuck dashed across the hall into the bathroom and performed his best 2-minute makeover. Thankfully, he didn't have to shave every day. Forcing himself not to fight the battle of taming his hair (because he'd inevitably lose) he emerged from the bathroom with minty fresh breath, and found Sarah waiting in his bedroom.

"Hi," he said, with an embarrassed smile and forced confidence.

"Hi," she said sweetly, then held out a cup of peppermint coffee. "I brought this."

Peppermint was Chuck's absolute favorite and the only reason he didn't drink it three times a day was because he only made $12 per hour, and he didn't have the financial resources. They both drank from their respective cups, looking over the rim at each other in a way that would have been significant if there relationship were remotely real.

"Does Casey know you're here?" Chuck asked, moving toward the kitchen to get food. Devon sat on the couch in the living room, holding a microwavable breakfast burrito, staring at a laptop. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept, but his movements were still sharp and alert. It was one of his doctor skills. Still, Chuck rarely saw him looking so studious.

Sarah dropped her voice, to keep the conversation private. "It's okay. He called me last night."

"He did? That's weird." Weird or not, it saved Chuck some time in explaining the situation. He went to the refrigerator and stared inside, looking between the milk and eggs and trying to decide what he wanted.

"You should have called," she chastised. "The minute this started."

Chuck laughed outright, then covered her mouth, knowing she was serious and unnerved by that fact. "You tell me to defy Casey, but you're like Bryce. If Casey kills you, you come right back. I don't think I have enough life points."

Sarah smiled endearingly, reaching around him for the eggs. "You know he's here to protect you. It's our mission."

"Yeah," Chuck said lamely. He found the spatula, and tried to smother that tingly feeling that came from having Sarah so close to him. "You're the only one who protects me unconditionally."

He looked at her uncertainly, seeing that soft beam in her suppressed smile that came when he said something sentimental. It was gone in a moment, dismissed with a deep breath, and masked with her business face.

"We believe Ilsa is working under the alias Kara Martin. Does that mean anything to you?"

Chuck waited, rolling his eyes skyward, pondering the name. He never had to wait for a flash, but he sometimes needed the second to process the fact that he hadn't flashed. He looked apologetically at Sarah. "Must be after the last update."

Shrugging forgivingly, Sarah found a plate for their breakfast.

"Her cover was compromised in Kazakhstan. We don't know why she was there, but she fell off the grid, and then showed up again six weeks later in Ontario with the boy. This mission is personal."

Nodding, Chuck divided the defunct, Riker-style, egg-only omelet he'd created between their two plates, and they started eating, leaned against the counter. Taking the conversation to the table would have put them within ear shot of Devon, who, by the sound, had started his morning crunches.

"So what do we do?"

"Get her to her embassy and let them handle it. We report any sightings to the French Secret Service."

Chuck bristled immediately. "Have you done that yet? Told them she came here?"

"No," Sarah assured. "If we told them she came here, they would want to know why. You're too important."

Oh, good. Someone had thought of that. The last thing Chuck wanted was the French Secret Service knocking on his door, questioning his sister.

"When she comes back for Quincy, Casey will take her to a neutral transfer location."

Chuck stammered, confused. "We're not going to help?"

"If it were us running through France, would you want CIA backup or French Secret Service?"

Chuck swallowed hard, getting freaked out just by the notion. "Honestly, if I had to choose who to call for help, I'd call you. And I'm pretty sure Ilsa came here because she wanted Casey's help."

"Well for the next 24 hours, she has him. He's taking a personal day."

*~*


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Devon hadn't felt so tired since exit exams, but he could now say "I'm a doctor" in five languages, and he'd refreshed most of his high school French, when it came to body parts. It had been a long time since he remembered that night at his aunt's house, and somehow it was scarier now that he could name all the injuries he'd seen on that woman in cold, medical terms. Through the fog of time, she had amalgamated the worst of the injuries he'd treated in his rotations, and his throat tightened at the thought. As much as he knew he wouldn't have slept, he wished he'd tried. So much of the nightmare had lifted when Ellie touched his shoulder that morning and kissed his cheek.

The morning was a strict to-do list – 100 crunches, a shower. He traded 20 minutes of cycling for a quick drive to the drug store and back to pick up a prescription for the kid, and then he went to John's door and knocked. It occurred to him that he'd never done anything as neighborly as dropping by, except the one time he asked for a jump when his car battery died. He'd always left the social invites to Ellie.

John answered the door, already dressed for the day and shaved. Even though Devon was equally groomed, the weariness weighed on him, but he forced a sociable smile.

"Hey, John. Is the little guy still around?" He held up the prescription he'd picked up. "He'll need some pain killers for his hand."

His neighbor nodded and stepped aside, letting him in. It felt strange, stepping in there. Everything was so neat and austere, and the photo of President Reagan stood out because it was one of the only personal items within view.

"He was up most of the night," John said, motioning him to follow. The bedroom was just as neat and acetic as the living room. There was gear everywhere, boots, cases, and signs of a hunting enthusiast, which seemed fitting. Quincy's face was stained with tears and he sat on the bed, hugging his knees, and sipping a smoothie from a giant cup. He wore one of John's t-shirts, but he still wasn't clean beyond what Ellie had done last night.

"There's a floating clinic in Orange," Devon told Casey. "They deal with cases like this and can get him proper treatment, quietly. If you want to take him, I can find out where they'll be today."

"I have my own channels."

Devon nodded, and knelt by the bed. He didn't want to scare Quincy, but he had to leave for work soon, and couldn't wait.

_"_Bonjour, Quincy. Comment te sens-tu??" he asked clumsily in French. _How do you feel?_

Quincy jerked away from him, nearly dropping the smoothie. John stepped in to retrieve the cup, and Quincy looked at him like a betrayer.

_"_Tu as mal à la main?" Devon tried again. _Does your hand hurt?_

Quincy looked at his hand, nodded, squirmed, and winced, pressing his back against the headboard.

"A mon cou," the boy said, his voice small and frightened.

His neck hurt. They hadn't caught a neck injury the night before. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Devon placed his hand on Quincy's shoulder and the boy flinched, crying out in fear, but not pulling free.

"Je suis un docteur," Devon said, waiting for Quincy to relax before he moved again. He didn't know how to instruct the boy in French, so he switched to English, and demonstrated what he wanted Quincy to do. "Turn your head to the side."

Casey translated, and the boy complied, then cried out and spoke rapidly.

"He says he was in a crash," Casey explained. "It's probably whiplash."

"One more thing that would benefit from an X-ray," Devon muttered, then instructed Quincy through a few other range of motion tests to verify the diagnosis. When he was satisfied that the painkillers he'd brought was the limit to what he could do, he stood to leave.

"Do your channels get him medical treatment in the next 12 hours?" he asked, feeling helpless, and not wanting to understate the urgency of the situation. A crash brought in a whole new range of possible injuries, all of which could have been severely agitated by the events of the previous night.

John said nothing, so Devon started giving him further instructions on what to do if the boy seized, passed out, or went glassy-eyed, or if he had an allergic reaction to the medication. Quincy huddled on the far corner of the bed, watching them warily, shaking with exhaustion, and cradling his hand. Subtly, Casey held out the cup with the smoothie and Quincy crept closer to get it.

"Où est ma soeur?" he asked softly, tugging on Casey's hand. "Je veux ma soeur."

"What's he saying?" Devon asked.

This time Casey came between them, crowding Devon out of the room. "You should go."

*~*

Quincy had tucked his knees under the borrowed shirt and Casey had to bite his lip to keep from carping about him stretching the fabric. He was asleep again, sitting in the chair in the living room, and Casey hadn't even had to tranq him. It was probably the drugs Devon had given the kid that knocked him out again. Casey's patience had been rewarded. He'd stopped pushing the little guy to tell him what had happened; he didn't press the kid to say what happened to his father. Instead, Casey had given him what he needed – food, sleep, medicine – and finally, Quincy came to him with a question more revealing than anything Casey had thought to ask. _Where is my sister? I want my sister._

He'd asked calmly, with trust and expectation, and Casey felt no qualms in promising they'd be reunited soon. General Beckman hadn't mentioned the kinship, but with just the mere suggestion, Casey could see the family resemblance, and knew it was Ilsa. Either that or Ilsa was out retrieving said sister and planning to leave Casey with a whole brew while she rounded up all the orphans in the South Bay area.

Casey had managed to get a phone number as well before Quincy fell asleep, tucked into the borrowed shirt. If he was lucky, he could get a trace on Ilsa with the number. While waiting for that job to process on one computer, Casey tapped into the Castle with his laptop, and started some routine maintenance sweeps around the Buy More, the Orange Orange, and the other bits of the shopping plaza they had under surveillance. Sarah peeked into view of the web cam, smiling knowingly.

"Bored already?"

Casey ignored her and focused on his work. She could charm him if he let her, but it was safer to keep his distance, because she could also kick his ass.

"There's a camera blocked by the new sign at the Mac station in the Buy More. Fix it." He hit a few more buttons, time-lapsed the footage from the morning, and zoomed in. "That green Camry has been in the lot for 3 hours now."

"I thought this was a personal day." She was teasing, but taking notes. The downfall of having a cover life that involved customer service was that one had to take time to serve customers.

He was about to say something snarky in return, but his computer beeped. The phone trace had come up with a positive match! He cut the feed to the Castle, and activated the GPS tracer. Another proximity alert sounded – someone was in the courtyard. At this time of day, it was normal, but given that he was harboring a new asset, he checked the cameras for a visual. Apartment F's stalker/girlfriend crossed the courtyard with some groceries. No threat. Silencing the alarm, he turned his attention back to the GPS tracker. He finally got a beat on the signal, but lost it just as quickly. Was he going mad or was she here! Ilsa!

She knew exactly how to avoid his surveillance. His breath quickening, Casey peeked through the blinds once to verify, then slipped open his front door and pulled her inside before she could knock. His hand was around her waist, but he loosened his grip when she flinched in pain. The left side of her face was bruised and scraped, but masked by concealer, and she wore a dark turtleneck vest to hide any other injuries. He wanted so badly to kiss her, but the cut on her lip still looked fresh.

Their eyes met, and they shared a breathless smile, because they never thought they'd be reunited again. Ilsa was the only woman in the world who could drop a live kid on his door step, no questions asked, and expect to find the kid still alive and in better condition than when she left. Not that Casey was prone to hog-tying kids and hanging them in his closet, but he was prone to asking questions. He had a million burning up his mind right now, but before he could get his brain in gear, Ilsa stood on her tiptoes and kissed him softly. He smiled.

"This is my idea of a personal day."

*~*

It was too warm for February, but Sarah wasn't complaining. Barring any unexpected missions, she planned a relaxing beach weekend before God caught the mistake and turned the weather back to cold.

Sarah surveyed the parking lot before going outside. She and Casey had a good beat on the employee vehicles by now, and those weren't permitted in the main customer lot. She'd run a plate check to make sure it wasn't a new employee or an innocuous customer. Only one car in 200 stayed over an hour in this shopping center, and Casey could be anal about checking those. So far, he'd captured eight legitimate threats, fifteen vagrants, and a hundred fourteen small time felons and juvenile delinquents. Sarah had started a tally of the dangers that made it into the Buy More, but she found it too disheartening. She always told Casey that there were still a number of legitimate threats that were deterred from trying before they even showed up on radar, if only to make him feel useful and ease her own conscience about intruding into Chuck's life.

The plates on the Toyota Camry were stolen, but when she tried to call it in to the local PD, she couldn't get a signal, which only made her more suspicious. Instead, she went back to the Orange Orange and made a quick call from the land line there, then went back to the lot. She hadn't even noticed the Camry arrive that morning, but then, she'd arrived with Chuck and her focus had been elsewhere. The vehicle looked sedate enough – pale green sedan, dusted with the special L.A. smog that became painfully visible on any car not washed weekly. The plates sparkled like they'd been freshly wiped down, and the door handle had been wiped clean as well, but they may be able to get prints from the hood. Cupping her hands over her face and pressing to the tinted window, she thought she saw a black box device in the back seat.

"This your car?"

Sarah turned sharply and pulled out her innocent sweetheart look. "No, I just work over there."

He was a scrawny man, clean shaven, but his skin was darkened with the in-ground oil that came from a life time working as a mechanic. He wore dark coveralls with an embroidered patch on the breast, announcing his name was Simon. His tow truck idled just a few spaces down. She'd heard it, but didn't register the threat, and now she felt stupid for being startled.

"Did the police send you?" she asked, knowing that her call would not have resulted in action so quick. They would have sent officers before a tow truck.

"Naw, the Large Mart manager called this in."

Sarah's brow furrowed at that, and she made a mental note to talk to the Large Mart manager. Although it was early yet, she headed for the Buy More. Anything jamming the cell frequencies meant that Chuck couldn't call her, and that made her nervous.

She glanced over her shoulder at the man towing the car, and he nodded and waved pleasantly when he caught her eye. He'd lined up his truck and tipped the ramp. Maybe she should tell him to hold off and wait for the police. As soon as he moved the car, it exploded.

*~*


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

It didn't matter that the situation was dire, or that she was injured, or that they were talking seriously. Ilsa was not a tease or a quick romp, and just because she'd shown up unannounced and expected him to drop everything to help her did not mean she was using him. She would have done the same for him.

Casey couldn't get her to sit – either injury of restlessness – so she stood in the middle of the living room, staring at Quincy and Casey lifted her shirt gingerly so he could find and bandage that wound on her spine that he'd inadvertently opened when he'd pulled her inside.

"Why is he sleeping in the chair?"

"I got tired of tucking him in," Casey shrugged. "He slept a few hours, then got up and started plotting his escape. He's been in and out ever since."

She winced as he patted the first aid tape against her skin, securing the bandage. Pressing gently with his fingers, he could see her fighting her reflexes to cry out. Her ribs were bruised and he figured at least one was broken.

"The boy mentioned a crash." When she'd lifted her shirt, he could see the dark bruises across her torso where she'd slammed into safety restraints. He held up the gauze as if to ask if she had more injuries, but she shook her head.

"Is it dusty in here?" She was asking if the place was bugged. He loved her so much more now that they shared occupations.

"Swept a half hour ago, then again when you walked through the door."

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Compulsive."

"It's been a slow day," he said coyly, standing up and trying to massage the tension from her neck without getting too close to the bruises.

"There's a bounty on my head," she explained.

"That explains the tension." He wanted to protect her and speak peace into her life, and he wished like hell they could skip that intermediate step of hunting down and killing whoever was after her.

"One of the hunters thought it prudent to use my family as bait."

There was pain in her voice, but she wouldn't let the tears fall. He hugged her gently from behind, clasping her trembling hands as she stared at Quincy and the boy stirred. Ilsa stepped out of his embrace and knelt next to the chair where her little brother slept.

"Petit frère," she said."C'est moi, Kara."

"Kara?" Quincy blinked wearily, his voice soft and confused. He whimpered as he instinctively rubbed his face with his broken hand, then opened his eyes and cried out gleefully. "Soeur!"

Nearly tearing his shirt trying to free his legs, Quincy threw himself at Ilsa, knocking her backwards, and she screeched sharply in pain. Casey fell to his knees next to them, pulling Quincy off of Ilsa's injured ribs. The boy embraced him to, speaking rapidly, and Casey caught the words 'just like you promised' repeated over and over.

*~*

Chuck sat agitatedly in the cage at the Buy More, waving a screwdriver animatedly, fixing a computer and arguing with Morgan. His friend paced in front of their latest Call of Duty strategy, pencil at ready, sketching different paths on the battle plan he'd tacked to the wall.

"You have to time it!" Chuck cried. "Our forces will be obliterated."

"We have a team on the east side –"

"Doesn't matter. Their squad's coming from the north."

The door to the back creaked open and Morgan snatched the plans off the wall, hiding them quickly. Chuck tried to look busy fixing the computer, because Emmett was breathing down his neck. At some point in the last few months, the Intersect had taken such a forefront, that he felt like this was a fake job. His fake relationship felt more real than his real job. Having Emmett on his case was almost a relief, because it reminded him this life was real.

"I'm sorry sir, customers can't be back here," Morgan said.

Chuck looked up and froze. Whereas Morgan interpreted every non-Buy More-employee as a customer, Chuck was pretty good at picking out bad guys. Maybe he'd just learned to recognize the hard, dead-eye stares, or the subtle outline of concealed weapons. His mouth went dry and he gripped his screwdriver more firmly, then subtly dropped one hand under the table to get his phone out of his pocket and speed dial Sarah. Why didn't he have signal? He planned to complain very loudly to Verizon if he lived.

The man looked like a cross between Inigo Montoya and John McClane – comical, yet scary.

"I am looking for John Casey," the man said in a deep, base voice.

"Oh, um. He took a personal day," Chuck said, as Morgan shooed the guy back toward the main floor.

The man reached behind his back, getting that same grimace that Casey got just before pulling his weapon. "You are on my list too, Mr –"

"Bartowski. Charles Bartowski," Morgan finished, then squeaked. "Hey, is that a gun?"

Chuck swallowed hard, standing up, if for no other reason than it freed him to run. "You really shouldn't try to hold up this store. The last guy who tried to hold up the store died."

"I thought the police …" Morgan trailed off, thinking it was a ploy. Then he crossed his arms and puffed his chest confidently. "Oh, right. We took him out."

Inigo McClane was not intimidated. "Walk to the back door. Quietly."

"And if we say no?"

"Morgan!" Chuck hissed, raising his hands, praying that he wouldn't get shot. Casey would choose today to take a personal day.

*~*

Quincy rested comfortably in Ilsa's arms and she rested in Casey's. He could sense the pain radiating off her skin, but she'd masked it from the boy, and Casey wasn't going to point it out. As much as there was urgent need for action, there was peace in the moment – or perhaps intense weariness. Ilsa leaned her head against Casey's shoulder and sighed softly when he ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her temple.

"There are several highly experienced and dangerous hunters still chasing us." Her eyebrows crinkled, but then she forced a smile. "In today's economy, few can afford to turn down work."

"Fuel costs and airfare alone," Casey joked, picking up on her humor and nuzzling against her ear. "Do you now who's funding them?"

"Victor –"

"Your ex-fiancé Victor?" Casey interrupted, suddenly alarmed, breaking contact. That threat was supposed to have been neutralized. Victor knew too much! Sarah had been right! Quincy was a magnet, drawing trouble to Chuck. "You could have warned me!"

"I just made the connection myself an hour ago," she stammered, watching as he stood and paced the room, already speed dialing Walker. Four rings, then voice mail.

He looked at Ilsa and Quincy. "Do you have a safe place to take him from here?"

She shook her head apologetically, her mind racing, working scenarios. "Not in this condition. He can't keep up."

Giving up on Sarah, Casey found Devon's number and dialed that. Devon answered on the second ring.

"I need the location of that clinic. Also, a safe house would be good. Call me when you have an address."

He hung up curtly, but hopefully that would impress upon his neighbor the urgency of the situation. No one would expect Ilsa to take refuge in a civilian operation, and she and Quincy certainly looked the part of a battered mother/son runaway.

"What are your resources?"

"A few blades and an empty gun," she answered.

Casey tried Sarah again, then he tried Chuck. While his phone continued to ring unanswered, he went to his gun closet and started stocking up on gear.

"This is just vengeance, right?" So long as it was a vengeance run, Casey could safely call in the cavalry to intercept. He tried dialing into the castle, but Sarah wasn't there. He tapped into the surveillance, and his blood ran cold.

Ilsa pressed her lips together. "It may be more."

*~*

The man made them put their hands down, and Chuck and Morgan walked shoulder to shoulder. He didn't know if his text to Sarah had gotten through, by the time Casey came to his rescue, he'd be long gone, and the Intersect hadn't even had the decency to flash and tell him why he was in this mess or give him any intel to use as a bargaining chip on the way out. He couldn't even tell Morgan that this wasn't likely a random act of evil.

And just when it seemed things couldn't get worse, Emmett came in.

"Sneaking out again, Bartowski," he sneered, blocking the back door, apparently oblivious to their quirky kidnapper, who had a bit of an odor Chuck noticed now. He smelled like fish and dried beer.

"Actually, no," Morgan croaked, then choked back at the growl of their captor.

"Mr. Grimes, please take this man back to the sales floor. Sorry, sir, this is an employee only zone." Emmett flashed Inigo McClane an appeasing smile, then turned back to berating. "You two cannot wander out of her at every whim. We need a certain number of heads on the floor to maintain order."

Tired of the delay, Inigo McClane brought the gun up for Emmett to see and Emmett shrieked. Chuck immediately dove in, pressing his captor's hand skyward so he wouldn't hurt anyone, and the man grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall. Through the stars, Chuck gasped for breath, pleading "Wait!"

The man's grasp loosened and Chuck felt his toes touch the ground again.

"Please don't shoot!" Chuck continued. "Buy More has a strict zero body count policy."

Emmett and Morgan were backed against the wall, no doubt blind to anything but the gun aimed directly at them.

"Please let me go," Emmett whimpered over and over.

"Here's a thought," Morgan chimed in, unnervingly calm about the entire thing. "Let us all go."

Their captor swung his fist. Morgan ducked, but Emmett took the hit right to the nose and went down.

"Carry him," their captor ordered. Morgan curled his lip, biting back a complaint, and Chuck was just glad not to have a hand clamped over his throat. Chuck took the shoulders, Morgan the knees, and now the gun was out in the open, but they were already practically out the back door. A white van was parked in the loading dock, and their captor opened the back doors, motioning them in. They slid Emmett inside, then the captor tossed a roll of duct tape to Morgan and instructed him to start binding wrists.

Now would have been an excellent time for Sarah to come rescue them. Now. Or now… Slowly, Chuck reached toward his pocket for his phone again, hoping that Morgan tying up Emmett was enough to keep Inigo McClane occupied. No such luck. Emmett came screaming back to consciousness and launched out of the van, not nearly felling their captor, until Morgan and Chuck joined the confused half tackle.

His pulse racing, Chuck tried squeezing the guy's wrist, wondering that Casey made this look so easy. Finally, he dove in with his teeth, biting down on the guy's wrist until McClane screamed and released the weapon. Chuck fumbled for the gun and backed off.

"Go!" Chuck shouted, and Emmett ran immediately. Chuck grabbed Morgan by the elbow and the two of them started off too before the man could chase. When he glanced over his shoulder, the man was reaching for his ankle. Of course he'd have a second weapon! Chuck dove sideways when he heard the weapon fire, hitting the pavement hard enough to scrape his palms. Morgan cried out as the shot connected to his knee and red blood sprayed in every direction.

After that, it was too hard to breathe.

*~*


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

The force of the blast knocked Sarah to the ground, raining fiery shards of glass and metal on her. It was well-contained as far as car bombs went, affecting mostly the car, the rear of the tow truck, the unfortunate vehicle that had been parked next to the Camry, and the shopping cart retrieval zone (which no one ever bothered to put their carts in anyway).

As soon as the debris settled, Sarah ran back to the tow truck driver, Simon, who had flown several feet through the air and landed hard on the pavement. He'd stayed conscious long enough to stop, drop, and roll.

"Sir, are you alright?" Sarah asked, batting out the embers still smoking on Simon's uniform.

He moaned, eyes glassy, seconds from unconsciousness. "Never had that happen before."

There was nothing she could do for the burns, but his side was bleeding and she placed pressure there. As much as she needed to check on Chuck, she could not leave an innocent man to die! Wiping one bloody hand on her white pants, Sarah pulled her phone and tried dialing Casey, praying the explosion had taken out the jamming device as well.

"Walker! I've been trying to call you for twenty minutes" Casey said, his voice sounding like it came through a tunnel. Sarah looked at her phone in confusion, then realized the explosion had damaged her hearing.

"Casey, are you still tapped into the Castle? Do you have a visual on Chuck?"

"He was still in the cage at the Buy More last I saw, but we have two rival bounty hunters in the area."

"The Camry had a bomb," Sarah said. She wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder, keeping pressure as Simon went into a coughing fit, spraying blood on her face. "Please tell me you're en route."

"Bartwoski?"

"I'll check him in a minute," she said softly, fighting back tears as the tow truck driver lost consciousness. She hated watching innocent people die. And where were the damn police?!

"Are you injured," Casey asked. She didn't answer. "Walker?!"

"In a minute –"

Sarah heard the faint sound of gunfire and froze. The phone dropped as she lifted her head, eyes and ears alert and seeking the source of the danger. The sound did not repeat. Grabbing her phone from the pool of blood it had fallen into, Sarah wiped the slick, warm liquid on her shirt and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Chuck's watch?" she asked, standing resolutely and running for the Buy More.

"Looks like he's behind the store," Casey said. "Hold on, I'm turning into the lot now."

*~*

Chuck was getting too accustomed to waking up, bound and gagged, on the floor of a van. On the plus side, this was one of the cleanest vans he'd ever been thrown into the back of. He whimpered softly as the van hit a bump, jamming his nose painfully against the wall of the car. Forcing his eyes open, he craned his neck and scooted around. Nothing screamed in his mind louder than that gunshot, and Morgan's surprised yelp.

"Morgan! Morgan?" Chuck cried, seeing his friend's green shoe and shimmying around all the faster. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

Pedaling his bound feet against the wheel well, Chuck angled far enough to see the top of Morgan's head. It was hard to see by the light through the tinted windows, but Morgan was lying prostrate, arms and legs bound, face down on the floor. His head turned slightly toward the sound of Chuck's voice.

"I'm okay," Morgan said, in that calm, clueless manner he had. Chuck wondered how much blood he'd lost, and was glad Morgan was conscious and not screaming in pain.

"Well not really 'okay,'" Morgan continued, his voice muffled and dazed. "I'm a little freaked out. I thought a ninja stealing your computer was bad. Being held hostage on Christmas Eve wasn't pleasant either. But this …"

Chuck agreed. He'd thought about telling Morgan about his spy life a million times, but always figured he'd lead in with some of the cooler parts – like flying a helicopter.

"We'll get out of this," Chuck said, wriggling to feel if his watch hadn't been taken. "Emmett will call the police."

"He'll call the press and turn this into a sales ploy," Morgan joked. Chuck didn't think Morgan was nearly freaked out enough for having been shot, but Chuck had never been shot to the point of spraying blood everywhere, and figured Morgan was in shock.

Morgan lifted his head and itched his nose against the carpet, then lay down again. Just being near was calming, even when they weren't straining their necks to make eye contact. Should Chuck tell him that Casey and Sarah were already working to save them?

"Hey Chuck? You don't suppose this is a sales ploy do you?"

Chuck smiled sympathetically. "No."

"Yeah," Morgan said, sounding disappointed. "Yeah, I didn't think so. But the good news is I think the bleeding stopped. Are you okay? You just fell over."

Chuck's mouth flapped incredulously for a few moments, waiting for the words from his brain to reach. "Well, yeah, you were shot! It's one thing in Call of Duty, but in real life –"

Morgan laughed and Chuck reeled. "It certainly was a one in a million shot. I lost a perfectly good can of grape soda."

Chuck's jaw dropped as relief and prayers of gratitude coursed through him. He wanted to laugh, cry, and dance, but the last one was hindered by the fact that their feet were bound, and the first two just weren't the same without the dancing.

"Why didn't you run?" Chuck asked.

"Never leave a man behind," Morgan quoted importantly. "Plus, when a can of grape soda takes a bullet next to your kneecap, it still kinda hurts."

*~*

Casey's world narrowed to a pinpoint as the tracking beacon in Chuck's watch failed – again. Now the question became whether Chuck did it intentionally or if something bad was happening, or both. He often thought about sneaking into Chuck's room at night and injecting a subcutaneous tracking beacon, but he hadn't been able to get General Beckman's approval on that yet.

That last left turn before entering the Buy More parking lot was always annoying, because the street was so busy and there was no dedicated turn signal. As soon as the light turned red, he gunned through the intersection, and turned sharply into the lot. Quincy whined from the back seat, then ducked into the foot well like he was afraid to be seen, which was probably a good thing with two confirmed bounty hunters in the area. Ilsa reached a hand back to touch his head, but kept her eyes open and alert.

It was impossible to miss the black plume of smoke rising from the Camry in the middle of the lot. One police car was already on the scene, lights flashing and drawing a crowd. Switching on the radio in his car, Casey listened for the official word coming in about what was going on here. Things were not going well. He had wanted to send Ilsa and Quincy off to Devon's floating clinic, but he hadn't confirmed a location yet. With Chuck's tracker down, time was of the essence, and he didn't have time to stash those two in the Castle yet.

Pulling up crookedly, he blocked any escape from the back ally of the store, then hopped out to see Chuck's last known location at the store's entrance. Sarah was running toward him from the opposite end of the ally, covered in blood. The way she was moving, there was no way all of it could be hers. She nodded subtly, then kept her eyes to the ground, searching for clues.

"I think they drove off that way," she said, pointing in the direction she'd come. She'd left bloody footprints all over the scene, and Casey was sure they'd never hear the end of it from the local law enforcement's CSU.

"Chatter says double kidnapping, armed assailant," Casey reported, repeating what he'd heard on the radio. He could smell the fresh gun powder and worried that one or both the civilians had been shot. The scent off grape soda told him right away that Morgan had been back here, and Casey knew that if anything happened to Morgan, Chuck would be pretty useless for a good long while.

Sarah ran a hand through her hair, smearing a red streak of blood with it. Sighing loudly, she turned and said, "There's nothing back here."

She reached for the back door, but Casey grabbed her elbow and jerked her around. Her eyes went glassy, but she didn't swoon.

"Look at yourself, Walker. You can't go in there."

"I'll see what I can learn," Ilsa said, stepping out of the car and coming toward them. "The bounty hunter must know you're here."

"One of them does," Sarah said bitterly, looking in the direction of the escaped vehicle. "You said there were two?"

"It's possible one is still in the area. Ilsa –"

Casey stopped talking, realizing that Ilsa had already gone inside.

*~*

Sarah's ears were still ringing from the explosion and her world swayed a little with each step, knowing that she'd failed. Chuck had been taken. She dashed down the stairs of the Castle, making a beeline for the computer, hoping for some perspective of what may have happened. Casey grabbed her shoulder and the world went black. She was more injured than she knew. Reaching blind hands, she fell into the nearest chair, trying to catch her breath. Casey tossed her a towel so she could wipe the blood off her hands, and surprised her by stripping her out of her pale blue hoodie so he could tend to the wound on her shoulder. The hoodie was a loss. That poor tow truck driver had bled so much on the front that the blood squelched out of it.

Her shoulder was cut pretty deeply – she could feel that now that Casey was putting pressure there. This was not the time to be injured! Chuck needed them!

"Quin. Come here. Put pressure here."

Casey summoned the boy and soon Casey's large, rough fingers were replaced by Quincy's tiny, cold hands. She wondered why Casey spoke to the boy in English and if Quincy was responding to the words or the motions and tones. She used the towel that Casey had given her to scrub her hands clean, but after a point, the towel was too soiled to help. How bad must her shoulder have looked for Casey to respond the way he was.

Swallowing any thought of pain, Sarah told him what she knew about the Camry with the stolen plates, and the jammer in the back seat that had kept them out of cell phone contact. It was a targeted strike. She wasn't sure if the bomb was meant to divert their attention or cover something up. Casey listened, and worked rapidly, queuing up the surveillance so they could review it while he patched her up. He found the superglue and glued the wound shut, then smoothed a numbing cream on her shoulder, which cleared her head immensely.

"Ils sont ici," Quincy whispered to Casey, and Sarah kicked herself for not refreshing her French like Casey suggested. She pulled Quincy in front of her and tried wiping her blood off his hands, and he let her, though he looked scared to death.

"We got a face on the kidnapper," Casey said, freezing the video of Chuck and Morgan carrying Emmett through the back hallway of the store. He zoomed in on the hostile and started a facial recognition search.

"The vehicle?" Sarah asked. "All I got was some treads through a puddle, giving directionality. I took pictures."

Casey tapped a few commands into the keyboard and swore. "I knew I should hard wire those, but no. We can't drill holes through exterior the walls without authorization."

She could tell by his tone that they didn't have a shot of the outside. All their external surveillance was wireless. The RF jammer had done its damage. Sarah buried her head in her hands, tugging at the roots of her hair, trying to pull the next logical step from her mind. Suddenly, Quincy made a mad dash up the stairs and started pounding on the door.

"Ils sont ici!" he cried, searching for the release and hitting the control panel on the wall. "Soeur!"

Sarah remembered enough to pick out the gist – the boy recognized someone and it frightened him.

"What's he saying?" she asked Casey, who seemed content to ignore the outburst.

"He says they're here."

*~*


	8. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The one good thing about Burbank, Chuck decided, was that it was a non-trivial drive between there and the middle of nowhere. Except for Griffith Park. That was a short jaunt. Or Brand Park. In fact, there were plenty of nowheres within a couple of miles that this guy could take them to and kill them, and Chuck's heart was beating pretty rapidly. He didn't even know if Sarah missed him, and who knew what Casey was up to with Ilsa.

"Why would he walk into the Buy More and randomly kidnap two employees?" Morgan mused. "Maybe this guy wants to ransom us."

"He's in for a bit of a disappointment," Chuck said, relaxing a little. "There hasn't been a comma in my bank account since October."

Morgan chuckled. "That's the first joke you've made since this started."

"Mortal peril isn't as funny as I'd hoped," Chuck said, smiling softly. The calm he felt washing over him right now made him think that he and Morgan would be the best spy partners, if only he was allowed to tell.

They hit a bump and Morgan gasped and cringed. "Oh, my knee."

Chuck was about to say something, but the van had stopped. Swallowing any fear, Chuck scooted himself between Morgan and the back door of the van, biting his lip as the carpet burned against his skin. The door opened, blinding him with the sudden influx of light, but his eyes adjusted quickly. They were in a garage, or some place with intense artificial light and dirty work benches. Chuck whimpered involuntarily, glad he wasn't being yanked out of the car or threatened with torture devices yet.

Their captor, the McClane look-alike, came into view, moving slowly, letting the light glint off his long hunting knife. Folding one leg under himself, he sat on the floor and leaned into the van.

"You are very lucky Mr. Bartowski," he growled, pressing his knife against Chuck's cheek. "You're one of the few people on my list wanted alive. Not for much, but no sense wasting a trip."

He smiled evilly, with perfect teeth, that were way too big to keep up the John McClane persona. Also, he really needed a tic-tac.

"Wanted?" Morgan repeated, and Chuck groaned as his friend nudged him. "What did you do man?"

"Nothing. I swear," Chuck said quickly. "I know nothing."

"According to Victor, you know too much," McClane said.

Chuck cringed as the pieces fell into place. Ilsa had come to town, and Victor was on her heels. Either way, he thought the whole point of being a top secret asset was that he wouldn't be on anyone's wanted list.

McClane pressed his blade against Chuck's skin, flicking it lightly and piercing the surface. Chuck closed his eyes and focused on breathing, but he was sure a girlish squeal had escaped unbidden.

"I would like to know what you know," McClane continued, "and see if it is of more use to me than the people I am selling you to."

"So why bring Morgan?" Chuck asked quickly. "I mean, I'm glad for you not killing him, but can't you just let him walk?"

"Limp," Morgan corrected.

"Limp?" Chuck repeated.

McClane sneered, drawing his knife away from Chuck, and looking at Morgan. He couldn't get to Morgan without leaning over Chuck, and he didn't try. "I keep him, in case you need convincing."

"No. No need," Chuck said. "I'm a very amicable guy. There's no need for threats."

"What kind of secrets are you looking for?" Morgan asked. "I can offer a wealth of secrets. I know what happened to the real Norman."

Chuck turned sharply at the mention of Big Mike's fish, but McClane was not impressed.

"Silence, fool!" he hissed. "Your friend here has government secrets. Tell me what you know of Victor."

Morgan harrumphed. "Who is this Victor? Chuck doesn't know any Victor. I've known this guy his whole life. You have the wrong man."

This time, McClane leaned over Chuck and pressed his knife to Morgan's ear. "Is that so?"

"Yes, that's very so," Morgan squeaked, for the first time showing an appropriate amount of fear. The air went humid as McClane smothered Chuck to keep his knife on Morgan.

"Wait!" Chuck panted, wriggling to get fresh air, but not wanting to knock the knife. "I'll tell you. Victor …"

With his friend's life on the line, Chuck had no secrets worth keeping. He spouted everything he could remember from his flash over a year ago, wishing he could re-flash just by thinking about it. When he ran out of things to say about Victor, he moved onto known accomplices, and kept talking until Inigo McClane looked satisfied. Panting with guilt, Chuck hoped he'd said enough to save their lives, and was grateful when McClane backed out of the van and slammed the door.

It was hot without the van's AC running, and dark without sunlight peaking through the windows. Chuck's body was covered in sweat and guilt, but for now, he and Morgan were alive, and only had a few cuts and bruises.

"Chuck," Morgan whispered. "I know you're trying to save us an all, but don't you think he'll be a little pissed off when he realizes you're just spouting the character profiles you used on WoW last week?"

"Hopefully we'll be rescued before he figures that out," Chuck whispered. He realized that over the past few months, his WoW character profiles had been heavily influenced by his Intersect experiences.

*~*

Ilsa was white-faced from pain, and Casey kept one hand on her back to keep her from swaying. Quincy had tried to run out when Casey opened the Castle door for Ilsa, and he'd slammed hard into Ilsa's already broken ribs. Knowing a tranq would get him a harsh scolding, he tossed the kid over one shoulder and took Ilsa's hand gently to lead her down the stairs. Surprisingly, Quincy didn't struggle, but rather molded around his shoulder and held on.

"Mr. Milbarge saw only one gunman, one van," Ilsa informed, her voice soft and controlled. She sat gingerly in one of the chairs, and pressed a hand over her mid-section.

Casey set the kid down next to her, and Quincy stood still, eyes wide, but calmer than before, keeping one hand on Ilsa's shoulder.

"If that bounty hunter is working alone, his next move will be to find a safe house. He has two hostages," Sarah said.

"No hits yet on the face," Casey said, checking the job he'd left on the computer. He turned the screen for Ilsa to see.

"That's him?" Ilsa leaned closer to Quincy and whispered a question. The boy shook his head.

"He's not the one that killed our father. Have you contacted French secret service?"

"There's no time," Sarah said sharply. "We need to close off the city before he leaves with Chuck."

"NSA is already on it," Casey said.

"Milbarge said that the bounty hunter came to the Buy More looking for you, John."

Casey's head snapped up, and he looked at Ilsa, not hiding his surprise or alarm. He could read the guilt in her eyes, and he wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault this assignment had run long enough to damage his cover. He looked down again as the computer chimed. General Beckman was calling.

"General?"

"The world falls apart without you, Major," she said, with mock seriousness. "I'm afraid I have to call you in on your day off."

"I'd like to handle Ilsa's and the boy's transfer," Casey interrupted.

"The Intersect has been kidnapped –"

"And so has his friend," Casey finished. "Grimes cannot keep this secret. If Agent Walker and I go in, our cover will be compromised."

"He's right, General," Sarah said. "Getting Ilsa and Quincy out of this area would make it safer to bring Chuck back in."

"General, if I may," Ilsa spoke up, and waited for Beckman to nod before she continued. "I don't require an escort. I am trying to reunite Quincy with his mother, if you can help. She's an American."

"I am aware of that," General Beckman said, and then her cheeks got tight. Casey had known her long enough to know the face. She had news so bad, it had broken through her cold exterior and twisted her heart a little. As the pregnant pause permeated the space, and the others remained clueless in interpreting the look, Casey's chin dropped and he crossed the room, so he'd be able to place a hand on Ilsa's shoulder when the bomb shell dropped. It felt like an eternity to Casey, but couldn't have spanned longer than a short sigh. Quincy looked up at him with huge, innocent eyes.

"Unfortunately, his mother died of a drug overdose last spring," General Beckman said. "She was in and out of prison on drug charges before that and would not have been eligible to take custody – My condolences for your loss."

Ilsa's jaw clenched and she nodded stiffly. "Thank you."

"I can direct you to Child Services when you are ready to surrender custody," Beckman said.

"I –" Whatever Ilsa planned to say, the words caught in her throat, and she clasped both of Quincy's hands in hers. "Thank you again."

"You will rendezvous with the French Secret Service in San Diego tomorrow evening. Until then, we are transferring you and the boy to a safe house in Eagle Rock. Major Lorentz with handle you from there."

Quincy knew something was wrong by the way Ilsa held his hands, but hadn't caught enough of the English to know what. Casey had a hand on each one's shoulder, and could barely contain the welling protective instinct stirring his insides.

"Permission to get these two medical treatment prior to the rendezvous, General," Casey asked, surprised at how strained his own voice sounded.

"There will be sufficient medical facilities in San Diego," Beckman replied, then cocked her head, trying to read his face. "But if you feel it is dangerous to wait …"

"Thank you ma'am."

"General, we believe there is a second bounty hunter in the area," Sarah said, turning the focus back to the work at hand. "I would like to flush him out."

Jealousy stirred in Casey, and his lips twisted with intrigue. Casey wanted to be on that assignment too. More gun play.

"I agree. We believe his name is Thomas de Mer," Beckman said. Casey hadn't realized there was more intel on the case. The General sent photos, and Casey called up a few to arrange on the screen.

Quincy reacted immediately, going into hysterics and screaming so hard he passed out.

Casey and Sarah exchanged a look. "I think that's the right guy."

*~*


	9. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Casey was jealous, Sarah could tell. As much as she could use a partner right now, chasing de Mer, she knew Casey's head wouldn't be fully in the game until Ilsa and Quincy were safe. He pulled together supplies while she reviewed the Intel, and checked the weapons to make sure they were maintained. She checked them again, because she was compulsive about such things, and he was too, so he didn't mind. No one minded when he tranqued Quincy this time, because after seeing de Mer's face, there was no calming the boy. Casey and Sarah tossed curt, facetious instructions at each other as they walked up the stairs, and nodded good luck to each other as they parted ways. He'd kill her if he had orders, but in moments like this, she believed that he'd at least question the order first, and that was more than she'd ever hoped for their relationship.

Their intel on de Mer painted him more as a ruthless mobster than a civilized bounty hunter. There were no innocents in his path. Unless an order specifically deemed that a target was wanted alive, then there was no chance of survival. Unless the order specifically mandated civilian body count of zero, no one would be spared. Whoever the second bounty hunter was, Sarah was glad that person had found Chuck first – otherwise both Chuck and Morgan would be dead.

The French Secret Service had uncovered the bounty message, and traced the distribution, so they at least had a sense of how much intel was leaked. Ilsa, Casey, and Chuck had all been named, and only Chuck was wanted alive. The price on Chuck was smallest, so even if Victor didn't know that Chuck was the Intersect, he suspected Chuck something of value, and that was a problem. The CIA would send Bryce to clean up the mess, if for no other reason than Bryce knew the importance of Chuck's secret. Still, a significant amount of damage had been done to both Chuck's and Casey's cover lives.

The other bounty hunter was probably content with the small bounty on Chuck, but de Mer was after Ilsa. The NSA had picked up his trail at the plane crash sight a few hours ago, and were following him into town. He'd traced Ilsa to Casey's apartment and was headed there. Sarah would be waiting.

*~*

"You alright back there?" Casey asked, checking the rearview as the traffic on the 5 slowed to a stand-still. It was an hour drive to Orange without traffic, and Casey knew Ilsa was bad off when she asked to lie down in the back seat on the way. Once he'd settled her in, he'd strapped Quincy into the front, and reclined the seat enough so the boy's head didn't bounce around. It was a bad arrangement, but it wasn't like his car was designed for this.

"Just tired," Ilsa said, clearing her throat gently, and Casey believed her for a moment. He activated the GPS system in his car and punched in the address Devon had given him for the floating clinic, wondering what they might do with someone in Ilsa's condition.

"Casey, the man who has Chuck – he wouldn't have set a bomb. It's not consistent with his style."

Casey nodded and pressed his lips together. "You think so too."

"Each one of us has crossed the lot at some point since the explosion, and nothing has come of us."

"That someone is after Chuck," Casey concluded. It was possible the bombing event was an independent terror act against the Intersect and had nothing to do with Ilsa's arrival. When it rained, it did tend to pour. On the other hand –

"We have a tail," Casey said gravely.

"How can you tell? We're not moving." Her voice was laced with frustrated sarcasm, but he could tell she trusted his assessment, so he didn't bother to explain. Seeing an opening, he changed lanes, then changed again, hoping to lose the tail in the insane 5-10-101 highway interchange. They'd have to skip the clinic for now and rendezvous with Major Lorentz at the safe house. At least there, they'd have the fire power and back up.

"I'm eating, man," Lorentz greeted, when Casey phoned. Casey smiled at the adventurous banter, knowing his friend had expected a few more hours of peace before receiving his charge.

"I got a tail."

Casey heard the plate clattering as Lorentz sprang into action, his voice turning quickly serious. "I'll meet you half way. Where are you?"

Swerve. Honk. Damn L.A. drivers! Casey hit the shoulder, then gunned for the nearest exit ramp. Once around the bend, he turned on the siren, and hit the gas. He needed to be a few blocks ahead of this guy without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

"Casey!"

"Whittier and Soto. Headed north."

"What are your resources?"

Casey looked at Quincy, slumped in the passenger seat, nearly choking as the seat belt cut high across his torso. He grabbed the boy's shirt and tried to right him.

"Help me get him to the back," Ilsa said, grunting with effort to sit up. Casey unbuckled the seat belt, but beyond that, needed both hands on the wheel.

"We can't leave the car," Casey told Lorentz. There would be no escape on foot; no fortifying and making a stand.

"They've found us again," Ilsa said. She'd tucked Quincy safely into the foot space and found a gun from the trunk. "I can take him out."

"Less paper work if I do it," Casey said.

"Less, what?" Lorentz asked.

Casey touched the Bluetooth on his ear, and shook his head to clear it. "We have a shot of the assailant."

"How's traffic?"

"Getting off the road," Casey murmured, then shouted over his shoulder as he veered off the main road toward the train yard. "Hold on!"

*~*

Sarah pulled into the lot at Chuck's apartment, and ducked quickly when she spotted Ellie and Devon pulling in a few spaces down. Ellie's face was puffy and her hands were shaking, and Sarah knew in an instant that the BuyMore had called her about her brother. Devon parked their car, then held Ellie tight as they crossed the lot toward the courtyard. Sarah waited until they were clear before she stepped out and set up her perimeter. Under normal circumstances, she'd want to corner de Mer in the courtyard, but with Ellie and Devon home, she couldn't risk it.

"Not a civilian, I see," a sinister voice said.

Sarah turned to face the voice, but was stopped by the sound of a gun cocking. She raised her hands slowly, and turned her head, trying to sound out his exact location. Adrenaline surged, tempered by an incredible calm that came over her when she was about to kick ass or die.

"This is the center isn't it," the man sneered. Two steps.

Sarah stood straighter, and turned her face to the right. He was coming from an angle. A gunshot aimed at her would get buried in the brick wall she was facing.

"Thomas de Mer?" she checked.

Long pause. She took a moment to take a deep breath. Her shoulder was throbbing.

"You're not French Secret Service," de Mer reasoned. "Did she really run to the American government? What name did she give you? Ilsa? Kara? Marie? Unless…"

His feet shuffled, closer to the courtyard and Sarah tensed. He was too far away for her to attack.

His throaty laugh crept through the air, chilling the day. "Why so tense, Agent? Is Ilsa here or is there someone else you are protecting?"

She could see him now, out the corner of her eye. He'd crossed the line into the court yard, and his gun was aimed low. That was all she needed.

Like a flash of lightning, she grabbed a shuriken from her belt, tossed it, then dove sideways as de Mer fired his gun. The bullet missed, but the heat singed her thigh. She landed hard on her shoulder, rolled through the pain, pulled two spikes and threw. One caught de Mer's hand, forcing him to drop the gun, the other pierced his gut.

Wounded and angry, de Mer ducked into the courtyard for cover. Sarah followed, gun drawn. He was breaking open Chuck's window!

Without hesitation, Sarah fired her gun, and de Mer slumped over Chuck's window sill, dead. A few minutes later, Sarah heard Ellie scream, but there was nothing Sarah could do now, besides lay low and wait for someone else to clean the body. In the stillness, reason returned, and she noticed the man's face. She had not killed Thomas de Mer.

*~*


	10. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The train yard was a maze of criss-crossed tracks and lined up engines. Box cars were lined in rows, like aisles at the Large Mart, some with filled containers, some recently emptied, some old and rusted and waiting to be dumped. Casey could weave across the tracks, ram the fence on the other side, and come out near Main Street. He just might make it to Monterey Park at the same time as Lorentz.

A car rammed Casey from the side, sending him swerving toward live train tracks. His head pounded against the steering wheel, breaking skin. Ilsa yelped and Quincy moaned groggily. Casey fought for control of the skid, and zagged over the tracks, launching through the air as they jumped the hill. Where had that car come from?!

Weaving into an isle of box cars, Casey gunned forward, but the impact had damaged an axle and the car fought the motion. Their pursuer was close behind. Casey felt Ilsa's feet press into the back of his seat as she braced herself to take a shot through the back window. The glass shattered and Casey felt the sting of hot blood spray across his neck. A bullet lodged in the front windshield He needed to get out of this aisle!

"Ilsa!"

She swore and poked her head over the bench seat so her face was next to his. "You've been hit."

The blood trickled down Casey's face, and he felt Ilsa's cool hands press against the burn on his neck.

"Shoot the bastard, already!"

Casey reached the end of the isle and swerved, but the axle snapped and the front, right wheel went its own way, sending them into an uncontrolled skid. Not waiting for the car to stop, Casey reached into the back seat for Quincy and his favorite M-4, opened his door, and leapt out of the car.

"Up there!" Ilsa said, already scaling the nearest box car to get on higher ground. She was drenched in sweat and blood, but she reached down to haul Quincy up after her.

Brakes screeched as their pursuer rounded the bend out of the lane of boxcars and slammed into Casey's broken car. Casey fired his M-4 in the general direction of the crash and their pursuer, then scaled the boxcar.

Ilsa lay flat on the top of the boxcar, weapon aimed, waiting to get a shot of their pursuer. Casey radioed Lorentz, informing him of the new plan.

"Chopper will be there in two minutes," Lorentz told him.

Casey took a deep breath, then lay down next to Ilsa and watched the wreckage of the two cars for any sign of movement. Had they killed the man already or was he laying a trap of his own. If he had any kind of grenade, they'd be caught in the blast.

"J'ai peur," Quincy said. _I am afraid._

"Stay down," Casey said. Quincy pressed against Casey's side and fisted the hem of Casey's shirt, laying his head on the box car. The metal was hot from the mid-day sun, and dingy from being out in the smog. Casey caught movement in the car, and then his phone rang.

He'd lost the hands-free set in the crash. He checked Ilsa to make sure she had seen the movement, then answered his phone, fully expecting to hear the voice of their pursuer.

It was Morgan. Casey clenched his fists, wishing himself back to the Castle where he could put a trace on this call and get the information to the NSA team looking for Chuck. He was in no position to mediate!

"Morgan, if you've been rescued, I really can't talk right now."

"Rescued! Don't I wish," Morgan said. He sounded weak – not lazy and tired, but drained, as though he'd been injured. Chuck would crack if anything happened to Morgan.

"What's going on? Is Chuck still alive?" Carefully, Casey scooted away from the edge of the boxcar, so he'd be out of any sight line. Ilsa reached a hand, motioning for the M-4, and he traded his larger weapon for her smaller one. Quincy stayed next to Casey.

"I think this man will kill us. Chuck is running out of secrets to tell."

"What's his name, Grimes?"

No answer. Then he heard the muffled question, "Dude, what's your name?"

Casey heard the sound of teeth clacking as Morgan got pistol-whipped on the other side of the phone. He listened for any other clue as to where they were, but heard nothing.

"Grimes," Casey said. "Grimes!"

"Yeah, I don't know his name," Morgan finally answered, sounding more dazed than frightened.

"Why is he letting you call me?" Casey said slowly.

Morgan hesitated, then spoke so rapidly, Casey could barely keep up. "I know this is going to sound really weird, but this man is convinced you work for the government, and he has a gun to my head, and he wants me to tell you that you have to come here and tell him that, um, Victor told him that … oh, God, this feels like junior high all over again."

"Come where," Casey asked. "Where are you?"

Morgan whimpered softly. "Make something up, man."

"What?"

"Tell my mom I died a hero."

A gunshot sounded and Cased dropped his phone. He could only handle one crisis at a time. The shot was from his side!

*~*

Chuck wasn't running out of secrets by a long shot, but he didn't feel he was buying time anymore. Their nameless captor wanted to know the identities of every person on his hit list. Some Chuck didn't know. Others, like Casey and Sarah, he didn't feel right revealing with Morgan sitting there. He wished he were a better liar, and if he'd thought about how often he'd lied to Ellie in the past year, he'd probably have more confidence in his lying skills.

"Let me talk to Casey," Chuck begged. "I can convince him."

"Let one spy talk to another," their captor sneered. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

Morgan groaned, clinging to consciousness and willing it away at the same time.

"Your little friend is braver than you."

Chuck scrunched his face, knowing his cowardice stemmed from having a better of idea of just how deep they were in it. Though, by this point, Morgan was pretty sure he was going to die, he still had a naïve believe that his death would be poetic and painless.

"How is it that someone with such a loose tongue came to know so much, and not be killed?"

"It happened very suddenly," Chuck explained. "I'm more curious to know how I don't know someone as bad-ass as yourself. What did you say your name was again?"

Inigo McClane smirked. "Enough chatter for one day. Time to move."

Grabbing Chuck's shirt by the collar, McClane jerked Chuck to standing, hustling him toward the van. A part of him screamed in protest that Morgan was being left behind, but most of him rejoiced. That is, until McClane pulled his gun and took aim at Morgan.

"No!" Chuck shouted, diving through the air and tackling McClane to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he couldn't get the upper hand because his hands and feet were bound, and the initial launch attack had been a miracle of physics.

McClane elbowed Chuck's cheek, slamming his head into the floor so hard he saw stars. The world turned black and red and he felt himself tossed into the van again. The carpet grated against his skin and the doors slammed. It was almost surreal. The world filled with noise that was silenced by a single, loud gunshot. Then Chuck's world went black.

*~*

Ilsa let loose a spray of bullets, and Casey crawled next to her to get an eye on the target. He couldn't make out any movement in the cloud of debris kicked up by the weapons fire.

"Can you see?" Ilsa asked weakly. She wiped her face against her sleeve, smearing blood across her cheeks and eyelids.

"Probably better than you," he said, taking the gun. He was relieved when the helicopter appeared in the sky, and raced over the highways to get to them. Casey had never felt so glad to be running away.

The sound of the chopping blades became deafening as the helicopter hovered close, kicking up swirls of choking dust. Casey felt Quincy clutching the fabric on his pant leg, but he didn't look away from the crashed cars until the side door of the chopper opened and Lorentz took a stance to offer cover fire.

Casey scooted away from the edge of the boxcar, and looked at Ilsa and Quincy. He'd been trying to get them medical help, and they were worse for it. Ilsa had lost so much blood, she looked like a ghost. She could barely sit upright, and Casey worried he'd have to carry up the ladder into the chopper.

"Quincy, tu y vas en premier" Casey ordered. _You go first._ "Grimpe!"

The boy was shaking, clutching his injured hand, but edging toward the ladder. They were moving too slowly. With hardly a thought, Casey stood, and lifted Quincy over his head, setting the boy half-way up the ladder. Quincy reached frantically for the rungs and scrambled up to safety. When Casey turned to help Ilsa, another gunshot sounded.

Casey hit the deck instinctually, and cringed as Major Lorentz targeted and took out the assailant. In the gunfire, Quincy's body fell hard against Casey's back, forcing the air from his lungs. The boy's blood soaked through his clothes, hot against his skin. He hadn't just fallen; he'd been shot. The gunfire ceased and Casey stayed lying there with Quincy's lifeless corpse lying on top of him. He couldn't breath and the weight of Quincy's body was more than he could bear.

*~*


	11. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Chuck wanted to rub his face, but it hurt too much. He was glad to know that the gunshot he'd heard before passing out marked the death of his captor and not his best friend. It was one of the few times he could remember that he'd sustained legitimate injury before passing out, as opposed to being injured in the process. Sarah had called to update him, and tell him he had to come to San Diego with her and Casey. He felt more up to the drive than a night in the hospital, so he hadn't asked too many questions.

"I'm fine. Really," Chuck insisted, swatting the nurse away as she came to run more tests on him. "I promise, as soon as you stop poking me with needles, I'll stop passing out."

The nurse made a face, but left when Ellie came in. Chuck was so confused. His worlds had collided, even more dramatically than they had at Christmas. Scooting carefully out of the bed, and squeaking when his feet hit the cold floor, Chuck started looking for his clothes.

"I thought you'd want to know," Ellie said softly. "The police caught the man who took you and Morgan."

"Thanks," Chuck said. She didn't know the half of it, and he didn't know how to explain. He pulled his pants on and changed the subject. "How is Morgan?"

"Hitting on the nurses. Even the men," Ellie said with a smile.

"Gotta love morphine."

"He'll be fine," Ellie agreed. She placed a hand on his shoulder as he changed shirts. "Are you okay? I thought you'd be more freaked out."

"I took the training course," Chuck dismissed. When she gave him a funny look, he shrugged and explained. "Casey lost his toe Christmas Eve."

"Yeah …"

When she didn't look convinced, Chuck got more concerned. "Wh – How bad is Morgan hurt?"

"No. He's fine. I just …" Ellie trailed off, looking at him helplessly. "If you need to talk."

Chuck's heart melted in gratefulness. He realized that if any sane civilian had been through what he and Morgan had, he'd be freaked out. Chuck had been freaked out the first fifteen times, and he'd been freaked out this time, too. He wanted so desperately to talk, he'd just become so used to holding it in.

"Tomorrow," he promised, shrugging on his jacket and brushing past her to the door.

Ellie jumped up in protest. "Wait! Where do you think you are you going?!"

"Chuck, they released you already?" Devon asked, appearing from nowhere and blocking Chuck's path down the hall.

"No one has released anyone," Ellie said. "Chuck –"

"I have to go meet Casey," Chuck explained. "I'll come right back."

"He can meet you here," Ellie said firmly, pressing her palm against his chest to direct him back to his room.

"She's right, bro," Devon agreed. "You need to stay overnight."

"In a hospital!" Chuck balked, repulsed by the mere notion of sleeping in the vicinity of so many needles without having great need for any decent drugs. "First of all, no. And second, Casey kinda needs me right now."

"I can't believe he'd ask anything, knowing what you've been through," Ellie said. Chuck suppressed an ironic laugh, wondering what might happen if she only knew.

"He didn't ask." Chuck trailed off, trying to think of a way to phrase this so that he'd get their sympathy and be able to meet Sarah downstairs in time. "He'd probably tell me to stay away."

"Is this about the kid?" Devon asked, dropping his voice immediately and pulling them out of the hall and into an empty room for more privacy.

"A little," Chuck stammered. "Quincy's sister – Casey's taking her to, um …"

"He's reuniting them," Ellie finished.

"No, he – I – How do I …" Dear God, Chuck felt like he would burst with pain. He wished he could un-know this burden, and knowing it as he did, he really did think Casey needed him tonight. "Quincy didn't make it. He, um … didn't make…"

Ellie gasped sharply and covered her mouth. "Was it an allergic reaction to one of the medicines?"

"Was something ruptured from the crash?" Devon asked, his eyes going wide. "I knew he needed a cat scan."

Of course they would blame themselves. Chuck felt horrible. He should've gone with Ellie's happier story about Quincy being reunited with his sister, but then he'd have no excuse to go.

"No, guys. Nothing like that. He was killed. Shot."

They stared at him, speechless, and Chuck wished he'd thought of a lie to tell them instead.

"He had some bad people chasing after him," Chuck said. "Anyway, Casey's not handling it so well, so I'm… Sorry, I have to go, or I'll miss them."

*~*

Chuck picked at a hangnail, mulling over the events of the day, wondering how he would explain to Morgan about all the secrets he knew, or what he'd say to Ellie and Awesome about Quincy. He worried that Casey would kill him (or at least hurt him severely) for saying as much as he had, but it wasn't his fault that Ilsa had carried Quincy through his window and set the kid down in the middle of Chuck's life.

Casey wasn't ignoring him. This was different and far more severe. They'd been driving for three hours now. Chuck and Sarah were in the front, and Casey and Ilsa were in the back. Chuck watched Casey carefully using the vanity mirror on his visor, but it was hard to catch more than a glimpse here and there since it was dark out. Casey and Ilsa were separated and looking away from each other, too overwhelmed with shock to process the truth of what had happened to them. De Mer had tracked them down and killed Quincy. The ripples of emotion – shock mixed with anger – played across Casey's face, looking torturous in the shadows of passing street lights. It only took a second for a man to snap, and with traffic moving as slowly as it was, Chuck worried that Casey would jump out of the car and start shooting anything that moved.

Chuck's phone rang, startling him. It was Captain Awesome – probably worried because he hadn't come home yet. Debating with himself and deciding that the silence made him lonely, Chuck answered.

"Put John on," Devon requested somberly. Chuck checked Casey in the mirror.

"He's not much in the talking mood."

"He doesn't have to talk."

With a shrug, Chuck handed over the phone. Casey moved numbly, and summoned his voice, speaking with more strength than Chuck would've thought possible.

"Yeah."

For a few minutes, Casey held the phone to his ear and listened. Then he hung up and stared at the phone. The shocked look on his face faded, leaving only anger and guilt. He kept clenching his jaw. Whatever Devon had said, it helped. With a small shiver, Casey shook the whole thing off and Chuck could tell he'd buried the hurt in that little black box in his heart where he'd hidden all the other painful things that happened in his life.

Handing the phone back to Chuck, Casey sat straighter in the seat, now looking around with his normal level of alertness and ignoring Chuck in his usual way. Sometimes Chuck wished he could get over things as quickly as Casey, but he didn't want to become jaded. Casey fidgeted like he wanted to get out of the car and Chuck locked the doors.

Then Casey reached over and places his hand on Ilsa's. She bowed her head and quiet tears streamed down her face, splashing on Casey's fingers. Casey's eyes stayed dry and he looked alternately at Ilsa and the road ahead. Their hands clasped. Chuck expected her to break into sobs and fall woefully against Casey's chest, but she never did. They just sat there, grieving together, hands connected in a way that seemed so intimate that Chuck felt like an intruder. So he closed the mirror he was using to keep an eye on those two, and started a conversation with Sarah.

This day had been one of his worst since the Intersect business began. Bounty hunters knew where he worked, they'd kidnapped him and his best friend, and now he was in a car driving to San Diego. No one had said anything about how such a breach in security had occurred, or about Victor's hit list. Bells should have been ringing louder, but no one had said anything. And why would Sarah bring him along on this trip?

"Sarah?"

"Yeah, Chuck?"

He debated with himself, wonder if he was paranoid, and even if he wasn't, whether he really wanted to know the answer to his question. "Are you extracting me?"

*~*


End file.
